


Wash Me Thoroughly From My Iniquity

by MissMoochy



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Spider-Gwen (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bathing/Washing, Dark, Dark Matt Murdock, Dark!Matt, Earth-65, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Jealous Matt Murdock, Jealousy, M/M, Matt Murderdock - Freeform, POV Foggy Nelson, Possessive Behavior, Roughness, Unhealthy Relationships, Yandere, mouthsoaping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28103238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: When he’s not at work, Matt follows Foggy around the apartment like a bad-tempered ghost. Scowling, and slouching against doors or counters, it seems like he thinks he’s entitled to Foggy in the same way he’s entitled to free use of the coffee grinder.Foggy entertains a lady friend. Matt doesn't take it well.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	Wash Me Thoroughly From My Iniquity

**Author's Note:**

> For anybody who doesn't know who Matt "Murderdock" Murdock is, here's the wiki explanation: https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Matthew_Murdock_(Earth-65)
> 
> In this fic, Matt and Foggy are not at college anymore, but they're living together platonically (well, platonic on Foggy's side).

It was a stupid idea. Foolish, misguided. But that name had flickered on his cellphone screen. Incoming call, Marci Stahl. And it had been so long since he’d heard her voice. Heard the throaty catch of her laugh. So, he’d taken the call. And it hadn’t taken long for her to convince him to meet. “Just for drinks” she’d said. But they’d known it was going to go further. It always did, with the two of them.

Within two hours, they’d finished the drinks and staggered back to her apartment. Foggy would have taken the time to admire the stark aesthetic choices and muted colours, but she’d thrown herself down on her bed and spread her legs invitingly. She’d always had a rough touch, one he favoured, and he’d moaned as she grabbed his hair and thrust his face towards her crotch.

Foggy hurries home, and can’t help compulsively licking his teeth. After everything, he’d brushed his teeth twice, to Marci’s amusement. She’d snickered and asked if she really tasted that bad. You didn’t, you don’t, was what he wanted to say. She’d been fucking glorious, soft curls and hard fingernails, her thighs trembling and her juices dripping down his chin. He’d buried his tongue in her, had savoured her softness, the heat.

She’d asked afterwards if he lived alone. He knew the implication behind the question, but he’d answered it in a straightforward fashion. “I’m currently living with my old college roommate, Matt Murdock.”

* * *

He slips in through the door and notices immediately that all the lights are switched off. Perhaps Matt is out for the night. He’s evasive when Foggy asks about what it is that he actually does to earn his wage. Foggy’s not stupid, he knows it’s something illegal. Matt keeps odd hours, but that doesn’t matter because he’s quiet and neat and pays his half of the rent on time.

* * *

Foggy passes Matt’s closed bedroom door but to his dismay, it immediately swings open. Matt’s still dressed in the suit he wore this morning, although his collar is askew and the jacket is creased badly. Foggy knows he has nothing to feel guilty about — he can date or sleep with anybody he likes and Matt is, after all, just a roommate, but he’s not stupid enough to think this is going to blow over soon. Matt already impinges on Foggy’s time to an unhealthy degree. When he’s not at work, Matt follows Foggy around the apartment like a bad-tempered ghost. Scowling, and slouching against doors or counters, it seems like he thinks he’s entitled to Foggy in the same way he’s entitled to free use of the coffee grinder. Foggy has dreamed up a million conversations in his head where he explains exactly why this behaviour is wrong and what steps he expects Matt to undertake to modify said behaviour—

—but whenever he sees him, his train of thought becomes abruptly derailed.

The truth is, there’s something subtly terrifying about Matt Murdock. It’s not the boyish flop of his ginger bangs or the dark, unfocused eyes, it’s something more insidious. An energy he emits, a sort of static charge that makes the hair rise on the back of Foggy’s neck. He’s always careful with him, tries to use _just_ the right words. To witness Matt Murdock fly into in a rage would be startling.

So, he knew there were going to be repercussions.

* * *

Matt leans in, makes some remark about late nights but when Foggy responds, Matt pauses. Frowns. Eyes hidden behind his glasses, his brows drawn together in something quizzical, not his usual scowl. He inhales, a deep sniff that makes his nostrils flare. And then, there is no other word to describe it, he cringes. A twist of his lips, the puckered brow, the face of a man who is in deep physical pain.

It’s a flash of emotion that dies as quickly as it had appeared. Dies and is replaced with a grin that Foggy doesn’t trust for a second.

“Either you’ve had tuna for lunch or you were entertaining a lady friend,” he says lightly.

Foggy shrugs. It seems safer than talking.

* * *

“I won’t have it,” is all that Matt says on the matter, as he hauls Foggy to the bathroom. His fingers dig in, as he marches him along the hallway, an unerring steady drag. Confident steps, too confident.

“I won’t tolerate infidelity.”

Foggy tries, he does try, to talk Matt down. _It’s not cheating if you’re unattached…_ But every time he opens his mouth, Matt winces, a visceral, full-body shudder with his face creased in pain. He smells her on Foggy’s breath. And he _hates_ it.

Foggy is released but the bathroom door is locked and he knows better than to try to slip past his housemate. And Matt is rifling through the bathroom cabinets with the faucet still running, searching for something, Foggy doesn’t know what. He hopes to God it’s not his straight razor, a gift from his father. Matt could cut Foggy’s throat with that.

But Matt’s gleaming holy grail is nothing more than an unused bar of soap. A generic brand, still packaged neatly in cellophane. Matt rips the wrapper with his teeth and spits it out. He makes a triumphant sound as the pale pink cake of soap is revealed, and he thrusts it under the faucet’s spray.

He’s got a nice lather going, foamy white bubbles spilling over his knuckles and sticking to the hairs on his arms. His jacket is long since discarded and thrown over the bath, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing fine, ginger hair and bumpy, jagged scars that barely show in the light.

“Matt…” Foggy tries, but Matt grabs his arm again and deposits Foggy none-too-gently onto the toilet. The lid is closed and he sits on it, eyeing the wet bar of soap now held in Matt’s hand. He isn’t sure how such a mundane item can look so menacing. And then Matt is advancing on him, leaving him to cringe against the tank.

Matt’s fingers are slim but strong, hooking into Foggy’s mouth and scissoring his jaws open. He wedges two fingers in the corner of Foggy’s mouth, rendering his jaws unable to close. Foggy grabs at Matt’s shoulders, clasps the front of that brilliant white shirt but succeeds in nothing more than ripping a couple of buttons from their thread. And the big, pink bar is glinting with jolly little bubbles that sparkle in the light, and the bar is closer now, held by elegant fingers and trying so desperately to crawl into Foggy’s mouth.

He’s choking him, he’s got to be, he’s going to kill him with nothing more than a bar of soap! And George Stacy will trickle in with the rest of NYPD’s finest and he’ll see his good friend, Foggy Nelson, lying on his bathroom tiles with his shirt wet and a cake of rose-scented soap lodged in his mouth.

The hard bar fills Foggy’s mouth, instantly coating his tongue with slickness, and he retches; he tries to not to swallow tiny fragments of rubbery soap shavings. Matt’s fingers are hot and wet where the soap is cold, and water drips down the front of Foggy’s shirt. He shivers and gags again as he convulsively swallows, bringing a thick mouthful of soapy water down his throat. Matt is giving him a few seconds to get used to the sensation, he realises. Standing bent over him, abnormally still, and Foggy is so dazed by this epiphany that it doesn’t occur to him to keep struggling.

Then Matt, with his brown eyes narrowed in concentration, gets to work. Gripping the slippery bar with his fingers, he rakes it up and down the roof of Foggy’s mouth, until there’s a thick layer of soap lining his teeth. Matt’s lips are parted and his wet tongue glistens in his mouth, hovering between two rows of teeth, like a fish swimming in a rock pool.

Foggy splutters, his mouth making ugly sounds, wet squelches and dry-heaving, as Matt forcefully rubs his bottom row of teeth with the soap. The soap bar is quickly disintegrating, and Foggy has abandoned all dignity, his throat gurgles and water and small, melting chunks of soap slip down his gullet. Matt rubs lumps of soap into Foggy’s tongue and smears what’s left on his lips. His fingers move in and out of Foggy’s mouth, reminding him (oddly) of sex. The penetration, the repetition. Slippery fingers and shivery breaths, wet, slimy fluids and shame. His mouth is so _full._

When Matt finishes his task, they’re both panting. The man doesn’t wipe his sticky hands on his pants — he snags a towel from behind him and roughly scrubs his hands, before slinging it over the side of the bathtub.

A few tense seconds pass, where Foggy gasps, still sitting limply on the toilet bowl, and then Matt plucks up two handfuls of his shirt and steers Foggy to the bathtub. Thoughts of water-boarding and sudden drowning fill his head and he struggles, bleats protests through numb lips, but Matt resolutely dumps him in the bath and turns the tap on, guiding Foggy’s face to the faucet. Foggy watches him, bewildered, as Matt steps into the bath, fully-clothed, just like him, and lets warm water flow into Foggy’s cold lips. Matt is surprisingly gentle as he rinses the soap out of Foggy’s mouth, hissing sympathetic sounds with every one of Foggy’s feeble moans. It helps. The warm water chases away the cold, and every last remnant of soap.

Afterwards, Matt pats him dry with a towel, but Foggy is still shivering and he knows he’ll only be warm once he’s changed into his pyjamas.

“There,” Matt says finally. “I bet you feel much better. Nice and clean.”

Any fight he might have had has circled the drain with the dregs of soap. He feels limp, like a damp flannel. He can't stop shivering. He just wants to be warm again.

“I…I want to go to bed.”

“Okay.”

Foggy waits obediently for Matt to unlock the door and once it’s open, he shuffles out, passing his housemate in the doorway. He can feel Matt’s gaze on his back, which is ridiculous, and yet he knows it’s true.

“Oh, Foggy?”

He turns. Matt’s not smiling anymore. “Yes?”

“Have another naughty rendezvous with that woman and you’ll see what I’m really capable of. I won’t harm a hair on your pretty little head but I could pay your lady friend a visit _._ Don’t test me.”

* * *

It takes a long time for Foggy to fall asleep that night.


End file.
